Fetes De La Patience
by Justine Harker
Summary: Your afternoon at the library just got a little more intéressant.


It's early on a Tuesday afternoon when I spot the man wandering the aisles of the French literature section of the public library. He was in a well-tailored black suit complete with a trim waistcoat and a pristine white shirt. His shoes were shined and the topcoat that rested across his broad shoulders was Burberry, black cashmere and long enough to brush the backs of his knees. He was tall enough to have to lean down to run his long-fingered hand along the leather spines of the volumes as he walked.

His face twisted, just barely, into a wicked smirk as I watched. He stopped walking and seemed to consider something. He hasn't seen me, but he likely knows I'm close by, watching, waiting to see what he'll do. The pale fingers paused, tracing the gilded letters of the title pressed into the worn leather before pulling the book from the shelf.

My heart skipped a few beats and my mouth went dry as I strained around the shelves, standing on my toes to see the book the man had selected. Was it the familiar green cover that would shatter my fragile heart? The book he had chosen the last two weeks. Or was it…

The black book.

I saw it now as he tucked it under his arm, the black leather almost vanishing against the black of his coat. I knew that book as well as I knew my own face. I had touched every page and felt the heft of it in my hands as they grew tired holding the heavy cover open during long sleepless nights. I knew what the words would sound like spoken aloud by a husky, sex-deepened voice in the early morning hours before dawn broke through the curtains.

Lost in my fantasy, I managed to lose sight of him. My head turned frantically, left and right, scanning the aisles of books. My gaze fell on person after person, seeing and rejecting them until I saw a swirl of long black coat slip through the open door of the stairwell.

My heart was racing as I walked quickly across the floor, weaving between the other library patrons who didn't seem to notice my urgency as I reached the door to the stairwell. I could hear sharp footsteps echoing and I paused. Was he heading up or down? I listened and heard a door creak open and slam closed again, and then silence filled the stairwell.

Like a kid running after his classmate, I am headed down, taking the stairs two at a time, my momentum taking me faster until I almost collided with the wall on the landing. One more flight of stairs and I was at the door to the basement level. The door is labeled with a sign that advertises history, philosophy and religious studies. I'm breathing hard and took just a minute to pull myself together before I went inside. I straightened my cardigan over my shirt and ran a hand through my short hair, wondering how I looked.

The door swung open with a solid creak and I entered the basement floor, smelling the musty goodness of old books and walked into the stifled silence of a half dozen people trying hard not to make a sound. The shelves were too tall down there, running nearly to the ceiling, and I couldn't see very far into the room. I had to do a systematic search to figure out where he'd gone. May as well start left to right, like I'm reading a book, I smiled to myself.

Into the history section where the shelves are labeled with their Dewey Decimal numbers across the wooden rows. A few studious types are settled amongst the shelves with assorted tomes out across their laps or laid out on the little tables scattered here and there. Row after row, and I didn't find what I was looking for. My heart was beating faster and I had to calm my breath so that I was not panting like a maniac.

The books changed from hefty historical accounts to the thinner, stranger titles of the philosophy section. A thin teenage boy in stood in this aisle, thick glasses and black clothes made him blend into the book shelf like he was part of the display, an extension of the Kierkegaard that was in his uncertain hand. I brushed past him and felt him turn to watch me go. Don't notice me, I curse under my breath.

Across another row of dusty books and I was beginning to see titles on religious studies. There was no one in these back aisles, not even in the seats against the wall. It was quiet except for the creak of an old leather book being opened for the hundredth time and a voice whispering, "Idle youth, enslaved to everything, through sensitivity I wasted my life."

Another few steps. My heart was pounding in my chest and I felt unsteady. His face came into view and those dark brown eyes lifted from the page and saw me for the first time. The perfectly wicked lips curled into a smile and took the next lines from his throat to whisper, hooking me right through the chest.

"Ah, que le temps vienne ou les coerurs s'eprennent."

"You know I can't control myself when you speak French," I said. Even whispering, I felt like my voice is booming through the shelves.

"What makes you think I was reading to you?" he asked, setting the book down the lip of the shelf near him with a certain amount of reverence.

"You picked the black book," I said and walked up to him, craning my neck so I could look up to his face. "As soon as I saw you, I knew you would."

He laughed softly and cupped my check in his warm hand. "I said to myself: stop, let no one see you and without the promise of loftier joys, let nothing put you off." He leaned in to place a kiss on my waiting mouth and instead of meeting his gentle pressure, I dive into him, pulling him down to me. He stumbled, hand reaching out to grab the shelf, sending the black book falling to the floor with a thunderous thud. A laugh is stifled between our mouths, but it quickly turns to something deeper and more serious as I slide my tongue over his.

I couldn't help myself as I rubbed against the front of him, pushing my body into his. He felt so good, and his words were running through my head like a wild bull, crashing and destroying my composure piece by bloody piece. My hand found the front of his trousers and worked its way inside of the fine fabric to touch the hot skin beneath. With just seconds of the gentle coaxing of my fingers, he was so hard that I was moaning as he pushed against my palm. I wrapped my fingers around the length of him and felt them slide against the skin, slick with the precum that's dripping wetly from the head. My thumb circled the base of the head and I felt him shiver but knew he was holding back.

I started to work him, slowly, gently, rocking my body against him, pushing him against the shelves so he has nowhere to go. His hips started to move just slightly and I heard a hiss of air escape his clenched teeth. The shelf behind him creaked from the pressure of his hands gripping the old wood. It's a start, but not good enough.

My hand moved faster, and I bit my lower lip and looked up to see his face as he focused on me. His ruddy eyes were half-lidded and his expression was as serious as I'd ever seen it. Only the tension in his arms and the short, quick breaths I can see moving his chest up and down gave any indication that he was creeping toward his edge.

I leaned into him, pushing him hard against the bookcase, displacing titles on Christian history and Hindu deities, hearing them fall to the floor, but ignoring the splayed pages at my feet. I got as close to his ear as I could and whispered, "Just let go. Lâcher, Sebastian. You picked the black book and this is your punishment."

That was enough and I felt him shudder before the barest groan escaped his lips and his eyes rolled back and closed. I felt my reward spill over my fingers, hot and viscous. It took me a second to remember where I was, and I reached into my pocket to retrieve a handkerchief to tidy the mess before it reached the front of his trousers.

Another quick kiss to his smirking mouth and I slipped out of the aisle and rounded the corner in time to see the teenager in the thick glasses bend to pick up the black book that Sebastian had left behind as he fled the other side of the aisle. The boy flipped it open and looked around nervously unsure of what unholy mystery he has found.


End file.
